


Catching Fireflies

by TheOceanIsMyInkwell



Series: I'm Peter, I'm 19 and I Never Learned to Read [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter is in college, Sleepy Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, everyone in this is pretty gay, everyone lived so yeah, it comes with being a dad, so is tony tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 09:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19248691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOceanIsMyInkwell/pseuds/TheOceanIsMyInkwell
Summary: “I don’t think I told you about the time me and Ned stayed up watching the sunrise from the fire escape.”“You definitely did not, but if this is one of those romantic escapades that ends with the two of you eating each other’s faces--”“Ew! Mr. Stark! Get your mind out of the gutter.” Peter slaps at Tony’s chest with no real force behind the gesture. “We weretwelve.”“Well, how was I supposed to know that? Besides, it’s not uncommon for twelve-year-olds--”“Donoteven finish that sentence.”Tony snickers, taking absolute delight in the pale yet discernible flush that floods the kid’s cheeks in the moonlight. The boy uncrosses his arms to slap his palms over his own face and muffle a scream of frustration.Tony nudges Pete’s elbow with a knuckle. “Quit the dramatics now. That’s strictly my department.”Peter lowers his hands from his face solely for the purpose of fixing Tony with what he apparently hopes is a withering glare. “Okay,fine. Let me wallow in my teenage angst instead, then.”--Peter has some big news to break to Tony, and summer vacation at the lakehouse seems like the perfect time to say it. If only Tony would stop interrupting him.





	Catching Fireflies

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled "It's Not Really Getting a Blessing If You're Asking Your Own Dad, Right?" because @QueenBoudicaTheGreat has god-level humor.
> 
> Also, Peter's in college now. Because I've exhausted writing all possible scenarios where he's a 15-year-old little shit and now he's gotta be a college-age little shit for Tony.

Something awakens Tony at the secret curtain fall that hangs between two and three in the morning. He’d like to bet it’s a subtle shift in the stream of moonlight through the bay window into the living room, or at the very least a slightly heavier creak of one of the floorboards on the south side of the cabin, but he knows that if the kid could hear what he’s thinking right now he would tease Tony endlessly about his Dad Sense.

Spidey Sense, Dad Sense. Perhaps one thing they have in common is their lack of common sense.

The whistle of the breeze picks up, and the diaphanous shadow of the cream curtains billows out from the direction of the bay window. With it comes the lilting, lazy smell of pine needles crushed underfoot and baked by old sunlight.

So that’s what it was. Somebody opened the window and is blocking the silver path of the moon.

Tony almost whispers “Pete?” into the night, but his throat won’t cooperate. He kicks off his throw instead--the afghan May crocheted him in faded sunset-washed cotton--and tilts himself upright on the couch with the familiar crick in his back. Sure enough, he glimpses the back of Peter’s shoulder resting against the corner of the wood panel encasing the bay window. The rest of the kid’s silhouette is curled up on the window seat, pressing an ornamented pillow to his chest.

There’s no way Peter doesn’t know by now Tony has sat up and is watching him. Still, Peter gives little indication that he heard him. Tony is in the middle of smearing away the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and wondering how long is too long to watch the kid in silence, when he is interrupted by his own sneeze.

Peter’s grin is audible in his voice. “Bless you, Mr. Stark.”

“Your nonsense is giving me allergies,” Tony grouches back. “What’re you doing up, Jane Austen? Waxing poetic about the moon?”

“Had to open the window. Was getting too quiet. Hope you, uh, hope you don’t mind.”

Tony waves a dismissive hand in response. Peter still hasn’t turned fully in his direction, but them being them, he probably predicted that reply from the man anyway.

Tony musters the energy to stand on the couch and slither over the top to the other side so he can pad over to the window seat. Only then does Peter turn to give him a mildly reproachful look.

“What?” Tony says defensively. “You climb over shit all the time.”

“Yeah. And I’m _nineteen_.”

“Hey. I can promise you, I’m far more coordinated now than I was when _I_ was nineteen.”

“If this is gonna be another of your horrifying anecdotes about getting drunk and falling down the stairs, I’ll have to yeet myself from this window.” Peter uncurls his arms from around his knees to stretch and scratch at his brow with a yawn. “On second thought, it would be a lot more satisfying to yeet _you_ from the window instead.”

“They always said college corrupts the youth. I sure wasn’t expecting this.”

Peter blinks innocently at him, droopy-eyed from his tiredness. “What? College kids sit on windowsills all the time to contemplate climate change and trans rights and, and the injustice of eight a.m.’s.”

“You were the idiot that didn’t listen to me about the eight a.m. organic chem,” Tony points out. “I was referring to the preposterous lack of respect.”

“Oh. _That_.” Peter bobs his head and smirks into his sleeve. “That’s old news, Mr. Stark.”

Tony grabs the nearest pillow and lands a solid whack on the kid’s shin.

“ _Ow_!” Peter whisper-yells.

“Shut up and atone for your sins!”

“You forget,” Peter pants out, sparring outright with Tony with his own beaded pillow-- “you--forget--I’m nothing but a-- _heathen_!”

“Damn straight you are! C’mere, you--” Tony curses when Peter manages to snag his pillow, too. The man tugs, only to be rewarded by the kid’s smug grin as he shows off his sticking skills and refuses to let go of the pillow.

“Well, they say there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Tony quips, and lunges for Peter. The kid’s eyes blow wide open. The next thing they know, Tony has him in a headlock and Peter’s arms are circled round the man’s waist in a pretense of trying to squeeze the air out of him.

“C’mon, time to give up, young buck.”

“Never.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna suffocate down there.”

“Nein.”

“Surrender just this once, and I’ll let you and Mo have double chocolate chips in the pancakes tomorrow.”

“Nope.” Peter pops his _p_ and rolls over as best he can so his nose jams into Tony’s thigh. That goddamn smirk is ever-present as he mumbles, “You get no say in that. Only Mrs. Pepper does.”

“She is not the boss of me.”

Peter’s curls rasp across Tony’s knee as he twists his head upward in a sudden movement. He blinks once at the man.

Tony dissolves in silent cackles. “Okay, I lied. She is so the boss of me.”

“I wish we had FRIDAY here right now to record that whole conversation for blackmail purposes.”

“Oh, kid, if you think you could ever outdo me in the blackmailing department, then you got another thing comin’.”

Peter releases a theatrical, longsuffering sigh. By tacit agreement, Tony releases his headlock grip on him as the kid wiggles around to stretch into a more comfortable position with his head nestled on one side of the man’s lap. Tony idly counts the blinks of Peter’s lashes and watches the rise and fall of the kid’s shoulders with each breath. Another breath of wind ghosts in past the curtains; the shifting light through the contrast threads of the voile cast dancing patterns over Peter’s cheekbone and shoulder. Tony finds his fingers restless, missing something, and he sinks them into the kid’s wavy locks to work out the knots with the familiarity and automaticity of years of intimacy.

The staccato sonata of the crickets in the bushes segues into the keening accompaniment of a lone cicada. Tony’s gaze is drawn through the window by the blink of two--three--no, four fireflies.

“You ever go catching fireflies with a jar?”

Peter’s eyes are closed. He shakes his head against Tony’s knee. “Me and Ned used to pretend the dandelion fluff was fireflies,” he breathes out, vowels soft and round with sleepiness. “You don’t find actual fireflies in the city. Never went to the countryside or anywhere open.”

“Peggy took me, once.” Tony sniffs. His fingers switch to a circular motion against Peter’s scalp. “I mean, I guess she didn’t really _take_ me, ’cause we were all already at the lakehouse. That was the one my father sold two years later. I was...eight? I think? My parents and Peggy got to talking so late out on the patio. Peggy had to go inside for the bathroom, and when she came back out again she must’ve found me on the grass a little ways away. I was watching the fireflies.”

“Sounds nice,” Peter says, scratchy.

“Yeah. We didn’t even talk. Not a word, I don’t think. She had a glass of water with her from the kitchen. She threw it back till it was empty and then showed me how to coax the firefly into the glass, and then she closed it up with her other hand.”

“Thought you said it was a jar.”

“Not that time, it wasn’t. I kept doing it every summer after that with a jar, till my dad sold the lakehouse, I mean.”

“’S really weird,” Petter mutters after a little while.

“What is?”

“Just, how different our childhood memories…feel, I guess.” Peter’s eyes blink open again, but he’s not looking directly at Tony. His visage is lax and open, his gaze trained on a thread sticking up from the knee of Tony’s pajamas, maybe, or on a point shimmering on the surface of the lake hundreds of yards away through the window. “I grew up in the city all my life. Even before I got these super-senses, my memories were always mostly centered on smell, I think. And sound, a little bit. There was always the bike tires going back and forth during the warm months. If it was a crunchy sound, like gravel, that meant it was the height of summer, ’cause that was always when they did construction and repaired the roads outside the apartment. Oh! And the smell of the bird shit whenever we opened the window in May and Ben’s bedroom.”

Tony snorts inelegantly.

“Winter was noisy too, actually,” Peter goes on musing. “But, like, in a different way. Lots of honking.”

“That’s New York for ya,” Tony interjects. “Throw some ice into the mix and people lose their goddamn minds.”

Peter side-eyes him. “Yeah, well, commuting builds character, Mr. Stark. Not everyone can jet off in a titanium suit every day, you know.”

“Ouch,” Tony grumbles. “I liked you better when you were describing the smell of the bird shit. Go back to that. Makes me feel better for all those dollars I’m paying to get you a well-rounded education with humanities courses.”

Peter wriggles again, jostling Tony’s knees, and doesn’t stop moving for what seems like eternity until he finally finds a marginally more comfortable position with his neck draped over Tony’s right leg. The kid crosses his arms over his chest and pokes his tongue up in Tony’s direction.

“That’s what I meant when I said it’s too quiet here,” Peter goes on. “I mean, with the window closed.”

Tony matches the quietness of his tone. “Yeah, I figured.”

“I don’t think I told you about the time me and Ned stayed up watching the sunrise from the fire escape.”

“You definitely did not, but if this is one of those romantic escapades that ends with the two of you eating each other’s faces--”

“Ew! Mr. Stark! Get your mind out of the gutter.” Peter slaps at Tony’s chest with no real force behind the gesture. “We were _twelve_.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that? Besides, it’s not uncommon for twelve-year-olds--”

“Do _not_ even finish that sentence.”

Tony snickers, taking absolute delight in the pale yet discernible flush that floods the kid’s cheeks in the moonlight. The boy uncrosses his arms to slap his palms over his own face and muffle a scream of frustration.

Tony nudges Pete’s elbow with a knuckle. “Quit the dramatics now. That’s strictly my department.”

Peter lowers his hands from his face solely for the purpose of fixing Tony with what he apparently hopes is a withering glare. “Okay, _fine_. Let me wallow in my teenage angst instead, then.”

“Yeah, you do that. You only got another year left to pull that card.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Anyway, as I was saying, we were twelve. Ned wasn’t supposed to be there. He walked all the way from his place to mine and climbed up the fire escape to knock on my window. It was like, four in the morning, I think?” A yawn interrupts him. “He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, which was super weird for him because he’s really open about his emotions and stuff.”

“Makes me wonder where you learned to be so emotionally constipated.”

“Well, I have been idolizing you since I was a toddler, so it’s not really a surprise.”

“Watch it, Underoos.”

“You’re the one that interrupted me!” Peter complains. “As I was saying, he seemed really...I wouldn’t say sad. That’s not really right. Nope. There was definitely something on his mind, though. He just asked me if I still had the extra swedish fish in my drawer. I said yeah, so I got it out and I climbed through the window to sit next to him on the fire escape.” Peter pauses, visibly cataloguing his memories. “There was a dump truck going from several blocks away like half an hour later, so I wanna say that was in June. That’s usually the month they switched the driver schedules in the neighborhood.”

Tony hums to himself. His mind flits back to the kid’s earlier ramble about childhood memories and smells and sounds, and he basks there a little in quiet wonder, trying to wrap his mind around how differently Peter’s brain has always worked compared to his. They may both be quicker than lightning at numbers and invention, but Tony has always been a heavily visual person. Lights, colors, even a particular expression in someone’s eyes, can dredge up a half-buried consciousness from his youth.

“Finally he asked me if I’d ever hated him for anything. I could’ve sworn he was about to cry or something, just by the sound of his voice, but I could see his face and his eyes definitely didn’t look wet.”

Peter runs a thumb over his bottom lip contemplatively.

“I remember I could see his eyes because that was right when the sun started to come out. You ever seen a sunrise, Mr. Stark? Yeah. The sun comes really slowly, like it’s not there for most of the time that you see the reds and pinks. And then all of a sudden there it is. It just pops up, and everything’s gold and stuff.”

“Gold and stuff,” Tony teases him.

“You asked for literary descriptions,” Peter huffs. “I remember the gold everywhere made his eyes look gold, too. Or bronze. Nah...it was his face that was bronze. A little bit of his hair, too. It was the silly haircut his nana gave him because she wanted to save money. It didn’t look half bad that time, though. Kinda cute, actually.”

If Tony didn’t know better, he would say Peter’s telling him this story because it’s the first time the kid fell in love with Ned.

“So he asked me that weird ass question, right? He asked me if I’d ever hated him for anything. I mean, at the time it didn’t sound weird. Nothing sounds weird after you’re done eating swedish fish on a fire escape and watching the sunrise.”

Peter stops suddenly. He’s silent for such a long while that Tony has to prompt him.

“What did you say?”

“Huh? Oh. Right. I thought it felt right to be honest, so I told him the only time I’d hated him was when he started on the diorama without me even though I’d specifically told him to wait for me to finish up the dishes.”

Tony’s heart does a funny little thing then, something in between a tremble and a crack, maybe a swell with nostalgic affection. He wonders if it’s possible to acquire a false memory from one kid’s half-told narrative of his pre-teen self washing the dishes and sharing a sun-washed moment of candidness with his best friend.

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the kind of answer he was looking for.”

“Nope.” Peter purses his lips and presses them together in a line--that adorable habit that he’s never outgrown, not since he was fifteen and an awkward webslinging hero stumbling over his own words in front of Tony Stark.

Tony waits. No other clarification comes. Peter doesn’t speak again, not for what stretches into several minutes, though Tony is hit with the acute awareness that the kid is torn between honesty and secrecy. He can almost feel it thick in the air, the desire and the need for revelation, coupled with the characteristic hesitancy.

Tony doesn’t assure him that it’s all right--doesn’t coax him into giving more, but doesn’t cut him off, either. He waits. And when nothing comes, he releases a breath, and another, and another.

They know each other too well by now to force the story out. And they both know that they know it’s okay.

“Ned was really brave,” Peter says at last. “He was really brave. At twelve.”

Oh.

Tony rifles through his own memories and finds that the first time he came out to Rhodey hadn’t even been a coming out, really. More like an accident when Rhodey had walked in on him staring at the hologram of his first ex-boyfriend in the headlines. Tony had been twenty-six.

“You know that saying?” Tony says. “Birds of a feather flock together, or something like that?”

Peter shuts his eyes with a lopsided smile. “It wouldn’t kill you to give somebody a direct compliment every now and then, y’know.”

“Hey. You’re the one who called me emotionally constipated. I’m nothing if not consistent.” Tony shifts his weight to the other side of his body and massages Peter’s knee with his left hand. Sniffs. “Comment still stands, though. The two of you were pretty strapping, brave young pups.”

One of Peter’s eyes pops open to let the man know how unimpressed he is at the quip. “I ask for _one day_ without a puppy comment and--”

“Okay, okay, no more puppy comments.” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “Seriously, though. Sunrises? On a fire escape? You two have been Romeo-and-Juliet-ing up the place since you were teeny boppers.”

“If that is how you’re gonna open your speech when you give me away at the wedding, you’re officially banned.”

“I’m only trying to speak the tru--wait, _what_.”

The breathless laugh sneaks up on Peter and knocks the wind from him. He curls even closer into Tony’s stomach, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Wedding,” he repeats into the folds of Tony’s shirt. “Or are you going deaf, too?”

“Hold on, hold on, hold _on_. When did this happen?”

“It hasn’t,” says Peter. “Not yet. I mean--unless you only wanted to hear about it after? I dunno, I was kinda trying to broach the subject with you first before doing anything.” The kid’s face abruptly reads uncertainty. “Are you mad? Did I--did say something--oh, gosh. You look mad. I’m sorry, it was just a joke, I really didn’t--”

“I’m not mad,” Tony cuts him off. “And I know you weren’t joking. No backing out now, Spider-Romeo. Does he know?”

“We’ve...kinda talked about the possibility of kids and a future together? If that counts?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, do _not_ mention kids, Pete, we _just_ got past the word ‘wedding.’ Give your old man some time to let his ticker catch up.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, though now that the air’s been cleared, he sounds anything but.

“Okay, I think I’m good. So. Plans. Dates. When’re you planning to pop the question? Wait, wait--do you have a ring? Do you know his size?”

“Chill, Mr. Stark, I overthink things just like you, so of course I know his size and I have a plan.”

Tony pretends to sniff in offense. In reality, he’s vibrating with a quiet and ineffable excitement. Disbelief, too, but mostly excitement.

God, his kid is about to get engaged.

And _married_.

And have goddamn _children_.

“I’m thinking July? Next month, when his family’s taking me along to Manila?”

Special overseas location? Check. Family for audience and approval? Check. Some romantic and relaxed outing to have Ned’s undivided attention? Check. God, is Tony’s kid a genius. His eyes are definitely not watering right now.

“Sounds like a perfect plan if ever there was one,” Tony encourages him. “And the ring?”

“Uh,” Pete hedges, “that’s where you come in.”

“You mean my wallet.”

“Excuse you, I mean your _expertise_. But I guess I can handle that on my own, since you’re so bent on insulting my--”

“Nah-ah-ah. Your well-meaning ass is gonna sit itself and its questionable taste down and let me pull up a list of suggestions.” Tony already has his StarkPhone up and holds up a finger to halt Peter’s forthcoming protests. He peers over the rims of his glasses, which have abruptly materialized on his nose like only a dad’s spectacles can. “Gold? Silver? Is he more a warm tones or cool tones kinda guy?”

Peter doesn’t answer for the longest time ever, which prompts Tony to glance back over the top of his phone at the kid’s face staring up at him from his lap. “What?”

“Nothing,” Peter says, voice thick. “I’m just really--I’m just…”

Tony’s face softens. He lowers the phone a moment to make steady eye contact with his kid. “I know.”

“I can’t believe this. It’s surreal.”

“Neither can I, but here we are. I’m proud of ya, Pete. Look at us. Look at me, about to give away my favorite beagle.”

“Mr. Stark, you _promised_. No more puppy references.” Peter sits up with alarming velocity, narrowly missing Tony’s chin. “I swear, if you call me any type of puppy at the wedding…”

“Okay, so the wedding is off-limits. I swear, no canine references for the entirety of the ceremony.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “And the reception.”

Dang it. “And the reception,” Tony repeats dutifully. “Any other conditions?”

“No Iron Man suit, either.”

“Aw, c’mon, not even when we do the dance?”

“ _No_.”

“Not even a little fireworks action from the gauntlet?”

Peter huffs as he tucks himself back against Tony, sliding his head into the space between the man’s chin and collarbone. “...I’ll consider it,” he mumbles.

“Now we’re talkin’!” Tony slings an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Now let’s see about that speech...we need a mashup name. Neter? Ped? Hackwebs? Interwebs?”

“I’m having Mrs. Pepper write your speech for you, and you’re not allowed to see it until the day of.”

“Uh, you’re forgetting something.” Tony grins into the top of Peter’s hair. He whispers, “Based on history...I don’t do that well with cue cards.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late for Father's Day but hey there's still some part of the world that's still Sunday! I had the sudden compulsion to produce this in honor of our favorite Bisexual Tin Can Man and his Queer (Disaster) Webhead Son. Happy Father's Day _and_ Happy Pride Month! Give it up for some pride, positive energy and good vibes all around <3
> 
> I just wanted to take this opportunity too to let y'all know how emotional you've got me with all your support since my comeback to ao3 after months of disappearing for school. Writing fanfiction is so rewarding in and of itself, but also being able to share it and feel the love from readers and fellow writers like you? That's just the bomb.
> 
> Also, I keep forgetting to share my [YouTube channel](https://tinyurl.com/KalebTheIntrepid) with you all! I post inconsistent vlogs there mostly about me being gay and a disaster. :)
> 
> I'm high-key thinking of writing the childhood memory of Peter and Ned on the fire escape as a separate oneshot from their perspectives, because I'm curious to see where the idea of Ned coming out to Peter as a kid would take us. What do you think? Please don't be shy and let me know down below! Love ya all <333


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